


Broken Glass

by SharkEnthusiast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: :(, :), Angst I guess, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Dean Winchester Has Issues, Dean Winchester Has PTSD, Dean Winchester Has Panic Attacks, Dean Winchester Has Trust Issues, Dean Winchester Has a Heart, Dean Winchester is Sam Winchester's Parent, Gen, Good Sibling Sam Winchester, Good Younger Sibling Sam Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Protective Sam Winchester, Smart Sam Winchester, Younger Sibling Sam Winchester, bruh, dont @ me you know im right, haha im a loser, okay yeah thats it im done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-30
Updated: 2019-10-30
Packaged: 2021-01-13 23:09:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21243236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharkEnthusiast/pseuds/SharkEnthusiast
Summary: God, some days Dean just hurts.It’s the guns in the trunk or the one under his bed or the scars he should have but doesn’t anymore.It’s the pressure that this job holds him under, this weight, crushing him.It’s Sammy, who isn’t small anymore, who doesn’t look at Dean like he’s the world because at some point Sam grew up. (Dean doesn’t know when.)God, he hurts.





	Broken Glass

**Author's Note:**

> some days when im super anxious or something or just like tired and overworked and not in a good mood i read stuff and it just makes no sense. And i wrote a fic about it except it's dean winchester because he's a bigger disaster than me

God, some days Dean just hurts.

It’s the guns in the trunk or the one under his bed or the scars he should have but doesn’t anymore. 

It’s the pressure that this job holds him under, this weight, crushing him. 

It’s Sammy, who isn’t small anymore, who doesn’t look at Dean like he’s the world because at some point Sam grew up. (Dean doesn’t know when.)

God, he hurts.

He drinks and shoots and breaks his bones waiting for something permanent to happen. Waiting for the gun to go off, the bullet to bury itself into his chest, so deep that not even Cas can fish it out. 

He never thought he’d live this long. He’d planned to go out by something big, highschool sweetheart crying in the shower, memorial of flowers littered at an altar at the front of the school.

He’s not 18 anymore. He knows he’s all too old for that.

Sam knows. God, he knows when Dean hurts like this because and that makes Dean hurt even more. 

So Sam drags him on hunts. Vampires, demons, vampires again. Gives Dean a gun to stop his hands from shaking, gives him blood to drown in instead of pain. 

It doesn’t help. God, Dean wishes it did.

They hunt and kill and bleed, but the blood never lasts or scars, and so Dean longs for something permanent. (Girls used to like his scars. He doesn’t have them any fucking more to prove that he’s been somewhere.)

He slides into the booth at yet another skeevy diner. Sam slides into the opposite one, looking worried and aged and it hits Dean very, very suddenly that Sam has grown into his name and his older brothers jackets and the legacy left behind for him.

The waitress plops down two menus, sends Dean a wink that he does not return. Huffs off. 

Sam is still looking at Dean weirdly.

“Dude.” He says. Picks up the menu and fiddles with the soggy edge. “Quit looking at me like that.”

He looks down at the menu. 

God, he hurts. 

The waitress comes back, sour. Lips perched in an unhappy expression, eyeing Dean with some sort of anger. He doesn’t know why.

“I’ll have the Cesar salad.” Sam says, quietly. Dean knows he’s unhappy with that, because Sam likes the real healthy stuff, with the kale and the dressing that’s not ranch. 

The waitress jots it down. Snaps her tongue against the roof of her mouth. 

_ Shit, he has no fucking clue what he wants to eat. _

“Uhm.” He says. Stares back down the menu. The words don’t really make sense. That’s wrong, they  _ do,  _ but nothing makes sense right now because Dean  _ hurts,  _ and the part of his brain that connects letters to meaning isn’t working right now.

“Uhm.” He says again. Laughs, painful, forced. “Shit, sorry. My brain isn’t working right now.” He’s laughing, but it sounds painful and manic and all wrong. Like some monsters, instead of his.

Sam is looking at him again. So is the waitress.

“I’ll come back, I guess.” 

God, he hurts. 

He’s used to anger, consuming him, swallowing up every rational thought. He’s not used to this, not used to despair for no reason, not used to pain for something that doesn’t make sense. He’s sitting at some ripped up booth at a diner and staring at the menu, waiting for the words on the page to make sense, tears prickling in his vision. Threatening to fall.

Dear God, he can’t cry in front of Sam. 

“I’m going to the car.” Yanks himself out of the seat, crashes into the pull door and locks himself in the Impala until Sam comes back out.

Then he drives. He drives and drives and doesn’t respond to Sam's attempts at therapy. 

God, he hurts, longs for something permanent, for something he can understand.

He does not speak.

He doesn’t remember the last time he did the whole silent thing, either.

He feels like broken glass.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you guys for reading!!! also the work count in 666 and i think that is crazy cool


End file.
